Black Mascara Tears
by Kristynite
Summary: Blackmail, assassination, Playboy, bribery, adultery, betrayal... just a few things that go on in The Volunteer State. Nashville is about a lot more than Music Row and southern drawl and there's a lot more that meets the eye when it comes to the country music's biggest names. Rated T for now. Could change at any time.


It was June 16th, a little after noon in downtown Nashville. Too early for any bar gigs. Deacon Claybourne found himself remembering why he never got up before three. But that life, the one full of sex, drugs, and plenty of booze, was behind him. He tried to remind himself it was for the better as he trudged along Music Row, an acoustic guitar case enclosed in his right fist.

He watched as the young guns, the hopeful, bright-eyed up-and-comers buzzed around like hummingbirds. _They_ had a reason to be up before dusk. They had coffee orders to fill for their superiors and mediocre songs to write in hopes of penning a number one. They had to earn their stripes. He laughed to himself as he sunk onto a familiar bench, dropping his Fender Sunburst down beside him. It wasn't his best guitar but it was his favorite.

He'd taken it on tour with him his first time out. Something like twenty years later, here he was, sitting alone and strumming along to a song he'd written a month or two ago. A song called 'Sideshow' about one-who-got-away Rayna Jaymes. He wanted to believe he'd written about his on-and-off fling Juliette Barnes but he couldn't lie to himself. Clear thinking and inner-honesty were a big part of being sober, he'd learned. And so he followed the rules he set for himself. And #1 on that list was 'don't lie to yourself, Deac.'

It was a pretty casual approach to internalized anger and dishonest thoughts but Deacon was a casual guy.

It was a hot one that day but in spite of the humidity, Deacon was sporting a full plaid shirt. He did, because of the heat, roll up his sleeves but that was the extent. You'd never see him in a guinea tee and jean shorts. He was old school.

Just as he was about to play his favorite Tim McGraw song (it had been stuck in his head all morning) a shiny red car pulled up at the light in front of him. It was being driven by one of Nashville's many young females. And, as was custom for young females, she had a Juliette Barnes song coming through her speakers. He recognized it was 'Telescope', Juliette's newest single.

He liked the song the way he liked most pop-country garbage. It was catchy. It was upbeat. But it was not Juliette Barnes. He knew Juliette. He knew her intimately on more than one level. And he knew she had an old soul. She was a brilliant songwriter. He wasn't entirely sure why she was so willing to subject herself to those teeny-bop 'country' tunes. But she was a lot less stubborn than Rayna James was.

Juliette was willing to make sacrifices to further her career. Juliette could swallow her pride and do something unconventional (or, in this case, something painfully _con_ventional) to get ahead. She was very savvy and very competitive. She was willing to play the game.

Rayna wasn't.

Rayne was headstrong and hell-bent on doing things her way. There was no other option in her eyes. She wouldn't tour with Juliette. She wouldn't let one of the studio producers handle her album. She wouldn't put out a greatest-hits record. She wouldn't even switch to a more contemporary sound for the sake of her album sales.

It was one of the things Deacon loved about her. Well, he didn't exactly love it about her but it was something that made him love her. It made sense to him, at least. Anyway, Rayna just wasn't as flexible as Juliette. It was kind of funny because Juliette seemed so rough around the edges, so hard-shelled. Yet, there she was, singing a generic pop song about revenge and heartbreak so she could get big enough to make her own stylistic decisions.

She was a smart girl, in her own way.

The sound of the red car pulling away was enough to shake Deacon from his jumbled brainwaves. Clearing his throat (and maybe breaking his rule and lying to himself a _little_ bit about how much thought he'd given these two women lately), Deacon went back to playing. Anything to get 'Telescope' off his brain.

Across town, in a little house off Main Street, Scarlett O'Connor made a late-breakfast/early-lunch for her boyfriend of four years, Avery Barkley. She figured he'd be up soon. He'd gotten home late, crawling into bed after three. He had a late set with his band. It was one of the few gigs Scarlett ever missed. That particular gig coincided with a shift at The Blue Bird and she couldn't very well skip worth.

She'd sense a bit of hostility in Avery's tone when she told him she couldn't go (though it seemed to be more of a selfish anger, like 'how am _I_ going to perform without _my_ good luck charm' versus him actually _missing_ her presence. Either way, she tried to shrug it off) and she hoped that bacon and eggs would smooth things over between them.

The two had, admittedly, been living through a rough patch of late. Deep down, Scarlett blamed Avery's band. She knew her boyfriend was wildly talented. He was surrounded by a group of guys with good heads on their shoulders. They made great music and she knew they'd go far someday. It was just a constant strain on their relationship. He was often preoccupied, stressed about gigs and focused on writing newer, hipper music.

This was one of the factors that pushed Scarlett to find her own hobby. She'd always had poetry but it wasn't until sweet-as-pie, albeit slightly naive, coworker, Gunnar Scott, encouraged her to put music to her words that she found a passion for music. Being the niece of Deacon Claybourne, she was bound to have some sort of musical gene embedded in her DNA. But the delicate blonde never went beyond singing at church or in the shower.

Now she was a songwriter. Now she was part of a duo. Gunnar was an incredible singer. He had one of those buttery smooth voices that could charm a girl's pants off. Luckily for Scarlett, her pants had stayed on so far. She made all her observations (like how pretty his eyes were, how great his smile was, the V-lines on his waist when he reached for something on the top shelf at The Blue Bird) were made in an impartial, uninterested third-person point of view.

The sound of the bedroom door creaking open caught Scarlett's attention and she turned to see a drowsy Avery emerge in his PJs. There was sleep in his eyes as he slinked down into a kitchen chair.

"What's all this?" he asked, voice thick with the early-afternoon exhaustion only experienced by true musicians. There was a ghost of a smile on his thin lips as he looked Scarlett up and down. She was wearing the apron he'd bought her for her birthday. As good as she was with lyrics, she was better in the kitchen.

"I felt bad I missed your set last night," she answered happily, the same-as-always cheeky grin spreading across her pale face. "So I made you all your favorites." She slid a ceramic plate of bacon, eggs, sausage and hash browns towards him. "What would you like to drink?" she asked. "Orange juice okay?"

Avery just smirked, a weird sense of macho pride hitting him like a wave.

"Some orange juice would be great," he said, spearing a sausage link with his fork. Something about how well his gig went coupled with seeing his woman catering to him had his testosterone-fueled ego surging. Avery always had a big head. He hid it well, especially around Scarlett who was so gentle and humble, but deep inside, he thought he was on his way to becoming a rock-country god (if he wasn't already one, of course).

The two were a weirdly volatile mix. It wasn't your typically deadly combination of two passionate hot-heads who exacerbated each other and brought out the worst in their partners. No, this was simply two talented, driven people whose dreams (and bear in mind that Scarlett was only scarcely aware of her dreams at this point) were taking them in opposite directions.

But, because they were both two engulfed in their own thoughts and the perfection of a simple breakfast at home, neither realized any of this. So they sat across from each other, listening to the clank of silverware hitting the plate as they ate their meal in a falsely contended silence.

Teddy Conrad was a business man. He always had been. That was his talent. His wife was a singer and a songwriter. She could paint a picture with words and sing something so beautiful that it brought you to tears. And him, well, he could take over the city if he wanted to. He was a tycoon, an entrepreneur. At least, he was. Now he was a politician. Leave it to Lamar. That man could convince a snowman to rent a timeshare in Hell. That was _his_ talent. He had this knack for making people do things they didn't really want to do.

And that's how Teddy Conrad ended up running for mayor. That's how he ended up stuffed in a monkey suit with makeup on his cheeks, standing at a podium uptown and talking to a bunch of middle-aged white folk about taxes and potholes. Was he happy? Not particularly. But he'd do what he had to do to support his family and keep his ill-tempered father-in-law happy. Especially because everyone knew that if Lamar Wyatt wasn't happy, nobody was happy. And so Teddy slapped on a tie and a smile and let Lamar and Tandy coach him in 'his' political standpoints.

Tandy and Lamar were so confident that Teddy would win. Mr. Conrad himself wasn't as convinced but nobody wanted to elect a self-conscious man so he stood up straight, puffing out his chest and keeping his chin up, making eye-contact with citizens and providing them with a strong handshake. Coleman Carlisle was stiff competition. He was an actual politician. He knew his stuff. He probably didn't even have to be coached. But Teddy refused to be deterred by Coleman's undeniable charisma and powerful speaking voice. He trusted that Lamar would get him into office, even if he didn't exactly want to be.

Back at home, Teddy and Rayna weren't exactly in the honeymoon stage. Being married as long as they had, and being so used to distance, you would think that two turbulent career paths would be nothing for these seasoned veterans. But, much like young Scarlett and Avery, both Teddy and Rayna were feeling the effects of emotional reserve and an obvious lack of communication and intimacy.

Teddy always had his suspicions that there was something going on between Rayna and Deacon, even if they were just cobweb-covered whispers in the darkest corners of his subconcious. There was always a little voice saying, 'you know she loves him.' He managed to cast aside his doubts, smiling less-than-genuinely whenever Deacon Claybourne's name came up at dinner. He never really cared for Deacon but he'd tolerate him for the sake of being the bigger man. He was mature and reserved. He could shake Deacon's hand without wanting to punch his teeth down his throat.

Besides, there was never any proof that Rayna had residual feelings for dark-haired crooner. Sure, they had been lovers once. They'd toured together, slept together, written together, toured together, done just about everything two people could do together. But that was then and this was now. Now Rayna was a struggling old-time musician, Teddy was an aspiring politician with his strings in the hand of Lamar Wyatt and, most importantly, the two had a pair of beautiful girls together.

Deacon Claybourne was hardly a blip on Teddy's radar. And he planned on keeping it that way for as long as possible.

Rayna Jaymes, meanwhile, was sitting in the office of one of Capitol Nashville's executives. For the thousandth time, she was pitched the idea of a greatest hits compilation. And for the thousandth time, she rolled her eyes and scoffed.

"I'll do a greatest hits album when I'm seventy," she said, arrogantly, shooting her manager the same look she always did. He knew it well. It was the 'what part of 'no' don't you understand?' look. If Rayna had a greatest hits album for facial expressions, that would be track #1.

Rayna knew that her career wasn't what it once was. It absolutely killed her and she would never, under any circumstances, admit it out loud. But she knew. She'd be a fool not to. She just wasn't producing hits anymore. Everyone was buying from what she called the Blonde Squad. Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift, Juliette Barnes.

Ugh, Juliette Barnes. How could that little twig with the bad attitude be out-selling her? Probably because the younger generation could relate to songs about first love and cheating boyfriends. The mature ballads weren't cutting it anymore. Hell, Rayna's own daughters were obsessed with Juliette. They'd sung 'Telescope' at the school talent show. But still, Rayna was clinging to what little hope she had left. This next album, she told herself, this next album was going to be it. It was going to be her big comeback. She was _sure_ of it.

Sometime around one o'clock or so, one of Nashville's biggest names woke up in, fittingly, one of Nashville's biggest houses. Juliette Barnes had been up late hammering out the kinks in a new song she'd been trying. It was shaping up to be one of her best, not to mention one of her favorites. But, living alone and having no really good musical friends, it was a lonesome effort.

If this had been a few weeks, or even a few days, before, she could have called Deacon Claybourne. Not only was she a songwriter who needed help finding a good lyrical flow from a renowned musician, she was also a young, attractive girl who would not mind the late-night company of someone as handsome as him. It would have worked beautifully. They'd write the song together, play through it a few times, have a couple drinks and then one thing would lead to another and she'd make breakfast in his t-shirt.

She snapped herself out of it as soon as the imagery crossed her mind. She refused to be hung up on a man who didn't want her. She wanted someone who would dote on her, someone who admired her for her and didn't think of her as some blonde chippy who was great for a good time and nothing else.

...come to think of it, she had someone like that. His name was Sean Butler and he was a cute, though sinfully boring, quarterback. He treated her well, even punched a paparazzo for her. Unfortunately for Sean, Juliette didn't care much for the good boy type. She couldn't even get him to sleep with her. There was definitely something ironic (and, perhaps, very telling) about the fact that she could get sex and excitement from one man and affection and sweet words from the other. Too bad they couldn't morph into some kind of Southern Superman. Imagine the hands of that creature. Skilled enough to play guitar like Deacon but rough enough to throw a ball like Sean.

She shrugged, lightly scolding herself for such a train of thought, as she entered her kitchen. She was free for the day. No press, no performances, no nothing. And because of that, she grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose she kept in her fridge for emergencies and hunkered down in her home studio. She was not leaving, she told herself, until she finished this song. 'Love Like Mine' would be finished today. No 'if's, 'and's or 'but's about it. She usually did well with this sort of self-discipline.

But first, in an act of girlish desperation, she checked her phone and email. There were a few messages from Sean. None from Deacon. She definitely grumbled as she shut her phone and her laptop and picked up the pink composition book she'd been working in twelve hours before.

Hey, at least now she had a little more inspiration.

And so it was, another simply complicated day for the folks in Nashville. There was Deacon Claybourne, the music vet whose weathered heart seemed to be torn between two of country music's greatest women. There was Scarlett O'Connor who was in the beginning stages of a meager music career, completely unaware of her own unhappiness or the fleeting inferiority she felt in her own relationship. There was Avery Barkley who was too focused on his career to realize how selfish he was and how poorly he treated his otherwise doting girlfriend. There was Teddy Conrad who didn't want to be mayor and just wanted to be a business man whose wife gave a damn. There was Rayna Jaymes who was too damn proud to accept that her career was on its way down the drain unless she started to listen to the advice of others. There was Juliette Barnes who was too damaged to realize her own heartbreak or know a good thing when she had it. And last, there was Sean Butler who had no idea just how small a shot he had with his sister's favorite country singer.


End file.
